


Your Kiss is on My List

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jealous Jaime Lannister, Mistletoe, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Snowball Fight, Takes place in some vague happy ending Westeros, Where everyone hangs out at Winterfell, Winterfell, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21668866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: "We could tolerate it the way everyone else seems to be," Jaime glances up at her, an exaggerated expression of coyness on his face."You're maddening, do you know that?""So you've said," Jaime laughs, "Keep your eyes sharp, wench. People go mad cooped up like this. You never know what you might stumble upon in a dark corner."Cooped up at Winterfell, Tormund introduces everyone to the wildling tradition of mistletoe, the Stark children have a snowball fight, and Jaime justreallywants Brienne to notice him.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 65
Kudos: 347





	Your Kiss is on My List

**Author's Note:**

> This is, hands down, the silliest thing I have _ever_ written. But it's wintery, Christmas fluff! 
> 
> Written today, mostly on public transportation, and unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title comes from the Hall & Oates song "Kiss on my List" because I am SO LAME.

It's still winter at Winterfell, even _after_ the Long Night. 

A dead Night King doesn't equal an immediate melting of what feels like an entire fathom of snow that's piled in drifts against Wintefell's thick, stone walls.

Brienne had never seen snow until they journeyed North, Sansa Stark in tow. 

She liked its presence-- _at first_.

Sansa catches her, one day, kneeling next to a snowdrift in the keep's courtyard, packing the fresh powder into a ball. Brienne can feel the cold through the hide of her gloves, wonders how long it would take for the wet to seep through.

"We throw those," Sansa tells her, looking at the misshapen lump in Brienne's hand. "When we were children; Robb had a particularly strong arm. He used to aim at Jon's face."

Brienne tries to imagine someone throwing a snowball at Jon Snow, with his sullen expression and gray eyes; she can't conjure the image.

"It sounds...fun," Brienne answers, the ball starting to melt into her hand. _A game for children._ She lets the snow fall from her hand. It shatters against the packed Earth where people walked.

"It was," Sansa replies, wistful.

What must it be like to return, and find your childhood home so changed, with fewer living family members? Sansa looks grateful and mournful in turn. When the snow clears, and she goes home to Tarth, Brienne will know for herself.

Sansa kneels beside her, heavy cloak dragging on the ground. She reaches into the snow, packing together a tight ball; it's much neater than Brienne's.

"We could resurrect the tradition."

"Lady Sansa--" Brienne can't imagine throwing snow at the Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa can clearly imagine the reverse because she smashes the snowball atop Brienne's head. It's _cold_. 

Then, Sansa _laughs--_ a rare sound since they left the Eyrie. "Lady Brienne, your _face."_

* * *

They're nearing the shortest day of the year. 

"I don't even need two hands to count the hours of daylight lately," Jaime says over a bowl of stew in the great hall. "It's so _cold_."

"So you've said," Brienne aggressively scoops up a root vegetables with her spoon, unearthing it from the murky brown depths. "To anyone who will listen."

"We weren't made for this weather; these Northern folk have ice in their blood. I saw a squire training in _short sleeves!_ "

Brienne _is_ cold, but she won't whine as Jaime does. He's taken to sitting close enough to her at mealtimes that she gets distracted by the heat coming off him. He doesn't feel cold to her.

"We do seem to have a lower tolerance," she admits, "I am sure we'll acclimate."

It's what Brienne's always done--adapt, acclimate, tolerate. The cold is no different from ugliness, shyness, hunger, or weariness; she will overcome.

"We could _tolerate_ it the way everyone else seems to be," Jaime glances up at her, an exaggerated expression of coyness on his face.

 _Ugh._ "You're maddening, do you know that?"

"So you've said," Jaime laughs, "Keep your eyes sharp, wench. People go mad cooped up like this. You never know what you might stumble upon in a dark corner."

The worst part is, Brienne _has_ stumbled on things she'd rather not see. More than once. 

While she has no first-hand experience, she isn't a stranger to the carnal acts between men and women; she'd been in enough camps with soldiers that she isn't shocked to hear something from the next tent over, or to stumble upon people in a darkened clearing.

Winterfell has many people crammed into a small space; Jaime's right--it's very cold, and there's little to do. What _does_ surprise her, though, is that everyone seems so damn _cheerful_ about it.

* * *

Brienne catches Pod under a stairwell with a girl from the washing room. They're half-hidden behind a barrel of some sundry goods, and her squire's hand is reaching conspicuously under the girl's skirts.

"Podrick," Brienne calls, harsh, before realizing it might be better to leave things alone. 

He looks at her, red-faced, and Brienne is filled with a sick sense of pleasure at embarrassing him. _Is this how Jaime feels teasing me?_

"My lady--ser," Pod stammers, and the object of his affection giggles.

"Is that how a future knight treats a lady?"

Brienne doesn't how a knight treats a lady, but canoodling under a stairwell _probably_ isn't it.

"He's a fine knight," the girl giggles again.

"We were just, um, chatting," Pod says lamely. 

"Was the conversation under her skirts particularly engaging?" 

"It was getting there."

Pod gives her a lopsided, roguish grin that reminds her so much of Jaime that Brienne wants to box his ears.

* * *

The Stark siblings reinstate the snowball fight. 

Arya packs them so tightly they seem likely to bruise when flung. Jon Snow's face will answer the question in a day or two's time. 

"You throw harder than Robb did!" Jon yells.

"Because I'm a girl," Arya replies. 

Rickon helps Bran lob snowballs from a spot cleared for his wheeled chair. His aim is surprisingly good, and Arya shrieks when snow melts down her back. Sansa, flushed from the cold, looks happiest. She's smiling at her siblings, and laughs when Jon picks Arya up and tosses her over his shoulder. Arya beats her fists against his back futilely. 

"Father always said a man should do the deed himself," Jon says, solemn, before dropping Arya headfirst into a snowdrift.

Their carrying on draws a crowd, Jaime included. He comes to stand next to Brienne, knit cowl pulled so high that all she can see are his eyes. 

"Such children," he says.

"Let them be," Brienne wants to protect the innocence of the moment. "They've lost so much."

"War is the thief of childhood."

Is Jaime is thinking of his own three children, lost to him? He's watching the scene with that faraway look he gets sometimes, like the past is a physical force dragging him backward. 

Jon pushes Sansa into the same snowdrift as Arya, and she lays there, flat on her back staring at the clouds.

"Father and Mother," she starts, breath visible in the cold air, "They'd be happy that we're back here, together."

"And proud," Bran says, "of all of you."

"Would you like to join them?" Brienne looks at Jaime, wondering if childish fun would be a benefit to him.

"Oh," he holds up the golden hand. He keeps it covered in a glove for reasons she can’t discern; it’s not like everyone doesn’t recognize him. "We did this when I was a child. I can't, now, though." 

He looks forlorn, an expression Brienne _hates_ , never knowing what to do with his self-pity when he's overcome with it.

"Could we make one together?"

Jaime looks up at her; there’s snow in his hair, and Brienne can just see that his cheeks are tinged rosy from the cold above the cowl.

Brienne kneels, and scoops a handful of snow into her gloved palm. Jaime follows suit, and together, with his left hand and her right, they compact the snow into a passable, if lumpy, sphere.

Jaime stares at the snowball, cupped in both their hands. " _Wench_ ," he says, and Brienne could swear she hears his voice break. "How is it you keep managing to give things back that I thought were lost to me?"

* * *

Jon Snow’s wildling friend, Tormund, is regaling half of the great hall with some winter solstice tradition that Brienne is trying very hard _not_ to pay attention to.

It’s about sex--or at least that’s what Brienne gathered from her not-listening.

“Don’t listen to that, Pod,” Brienne makes to cover her squire’s ears, but Jaime stops her.

“Lady Brienne, if you want to keep young Pod from learning the more sordid side of human behavior, you’re too late.”

“I know,” Brienne laments.

And so, Pod listens, and Brienne does, too.

“We Free Folk _steal_ our women, even better if they come at us fighting.” Tormund is standing on one of the long benches that line the tables, drinking horn in hand. “But we’re a gentler folk, sometimes,” he digs around in his furs and pulls out a sprig of green leaves adorned with red berries.

“Mistletoe?” Sansa calls out.

“Ah, the Lady of Winterfell has heard of it.”

“The berries represent...fertility,” Sansa looks a bit as though she wishes she’d stayed silent; all her siblings look to her. “What? It was in a book of plants Old Nan gave me.”

Tormund holds the sprig aloft and grins salaciously, “A spearwife caught under this is yours for the claiming, as long as you kiss her soundly.”

Arya _howls_ with laughter.

He smashes one of the berries between his fingers, but it’s too far away for Brienne to see properly. “The insides look like a man’s seed.”

Well, now Brienne’s _really_ glad for the distance; she will go to her death before making eye contact with Jaime.

“They don’t, really,” Jon calls out.

Tormund laughs, “I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of in your own hand. If you want a squealing babe, bed your woman after kissing under the mistletoe.”

“The Maiden’s blessing,” Sansa blushes, “For new lovers.”

“What a queer Northern tradition,” Jaime says to her left, “I wouldn’t mind trying it.”

* * *

After Tormund’s impromptu botany lesson, the mistletoe becomes a bit of a _thing_.

Brienne’s not sure what all the fuss is about--everyone was _already_ kissing. What does some stupid plant have to do with it? She’s not terribly superstitious, but she tries to keep Pod away from the mistletoe. 

Kissing is one thing; Pod getting all the kitchen girls with child is an _entirely_ different matter.

It’s not just Pod, though; everyone seems to have _someone_. Jon kisses Sansa under the sprigs of mistletoe festooned in the entrance to the great hall. She decided to hold a feast for mid-winter and was zealous in decorating.

Jaime, who always seems to be at Brienne’s elbow, whispers, “She might’ve made a decent Lannister after all.”

“They’re not _really_ siblings,” Brienne whispers in return.

Jaime’s come a long way, though, to joke about his sister.

She wouldn’t admit to being envious, not of _children_ who just happen to be kissing, but the happiness around her leaves Brienne feeling a bit lost. She’s learned not to dwell on her appearance, or the affection it may, or more likely _wouldn’t_ , afford her. She has friends, and respect, and that is _enough_.

* * *

That belief carries Brienne through a day, until Tormund catches her arm under a sprig of mistletoe someone placed on the door the armory.

The _fucking_ armory. 

It was probably Arya, in her pursuit of Gendry.

“You’re a spearwife,” he says to her, “And your eyes look like the sky.”

Brienne blinks, thinks of Jaime telling her, once, that she looked bovine when confused. Then, he’d told her that her eyes were beautiful. She really, _really_ didn’t understand Jaime Lannister.

Tormund kisses her. Brienne freezes, like when Arya stuffed a snowball down her jerkin. Only this is worse because she doesn’t have a snowball to throw back. She’d been kissed before, once, in Renly’s camp. She felt ashamed, then, for being foolish enough to think anyone had a genuine interest in her.

This doesn’t _feel_ like mocking, though.

But it _does_ feel unwanted.

Brienne isn’t desperate. She refused Hyle Hunt, and she pushes Tormund away just the same. Mistletoe could be tacked to every trestle in Winterfell, and it wouldn’t matter.

“I--I’m sorry,” she stumbles, backing away.

Tormund doesn’t look _that_ dejected. Instead, he laughs, “I’ve lost to that _pretty_ , golden--”

Jaime, as if summoned by Tormund’s words, appears from around the corner. Brienne witnesses the journey of his facial expression--from confusion, to anger, to something she’s too afraid to name. Tormund’s hand is still on her arm; the mistletoe, of course, hasn’t moved.

Jaime stomps over to them, like a boy having a tantrum, and raises his right hand.

_Thwack._

Brienne winces; Tormund staggers, but doesn’t go down. 

Jaime’s eyes are filled with a fury that borders on overwhelming, “Was that advance unwanted?”

“Y-yes.”

Tormund rights himself, and wipes his bleeding lip, chuckling. “Fuck mistletoe; _that’s_ how you claim a woman!”

* * *

She successfully avoids Jaime by skipping dinner and hiding in her chambers. It’s not one of Brienne’s braver moments, but she struggles to imagine what normal conversation they could have after _that_ scene.

There’s a knock on her door, the unmistakable sound of metal against wood. She freezes where she’s perched at the edge of her bed; maybe Jaime will give up, and take his leave.

“Wench, I _know_ you’re in there!”

Well, it was never a likely possibility.

“I’m not,” she calls back, already rising from the bed and going to the door.

Jaime’s on the other side of the threshold, golden and beautiful and _insufferable_. Someday, she’d like to gaze upon him without her heart threatening to claw its way up her throat.

“I missed you at dinner,” he hands her a basket. “It’s so drafty everywhere.”

Jaime's _always_ cold, but he hasn’t left Winterfell, stayed long after duty required and honor compelled.

Brienne rifles through the basket; it’s filled with meat pies, and that dried fruit she never remembers the name of but eats whenever it appears on the table. At the bottom of it all is another sprig of the thrice-damned mistletoe.

When she looks up, Jaime is looking past her, eyes fixed on the wall. 

“That fucking wildling didn’t have it right,” Jaime _almost_ sounds bashful, “I wasn’t claiming you.”

Brienne raises a brow, “No? You seemed quite jealous.”

“It was dishonorable of him.”

“How knightly of you, to protect my virtue.” 

What a rapport they’ve developed, over the years of interactions, that allows her to nettle him back. It’s so comfortable it makes Brienne’s chest ache.

“It’s selfish of me.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know?” He takes the mistletoe from the basket, and holds it over their heads. “I’m not so benevolent as to go around slapping men who steal kisses from maidens.”

“Everyone’s stealing kisses from _everyone._ ” 

“It’s the season, but I’m not a thief.”

 _Surely_ Jaime can hear the hammering of her heart. “A gift, then, given freely.”

It’s unclear who kisses who, only that Brienne bends down a fraction, and Jaime rises to meet her. When their lips meet, it burns any past scorn or ridicule from her mind. Jaime is eager and _perfect_ ; he drops the mistletoe and anchors his hand in Brienne’s hair. She lets the basket hit the floor, too, and takes him in her arms.

“Sansa told me that lovers who kiss under the mistletoe will endure,” Jaime rests his chin on her shoulder and whispers the words.

“I don’t recall us being lovers?”

“Aren’t we, though, in all but deed?”

“I always assumed the name came _from_ the deed.”

“Easy enough to remedy,” Jaime chuckles, breath warm in her ear; it sends a shiver down her spine that has little to do with cold. “And, wench, have we not endured?”

The years between them, filled with Bloody Mummers, bears, Lady Stoneheart, the Dragon Queen, the Long Night--all of it ending _here._ Brienne’s suddenly eager for the last bit, the part they _haven’t_ done.

“We have, haven’t we?”  
  



End file.
